


Vero Velo

by emmykay



Category: U-Lock
Genre: Bikes, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Falcon Explorer was just minding his own business when destiny drops in on him.  Bike gijinka.  Slice-of-life.  Bike romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Canalside

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff for porn comic. Because.
> 
> Inspired by this [this: ](http://starlock.tumblr.com/post/84465266777/on-closer-inspection-i-cant-believe-how-perfect) and [ this.](http://painbows.tumblr.com/post/84201695108/i-drew-my-bike-as-people-i-love-my-bike-so-much)

The rider had taken him down the Canal side of the building, and then parked and left him at the empty bike rack, making sure to chain him up thoroughly. He didn’t mind. It made him feel secure. The day he was stolen was a day of calamity, that much he knew, because it had happened once before. While still fit, he was not as young as he used to be.

The morning wore on, and the rack became filled, a bit haphazardly. Well, his rider was a frequent visitor at the Science Museum and left him here at the Cambridgeside Galleria, and while there might be great order in their equations, there was not in their choice of bike rack. He watched the sun and the people go by. It was a nice spring day with the sun shining down.

He barely saw a shadow and then suddenly, a great weight was flung on top of him, blocking out the sun and causing him to slide to the side. ”I beg your pardon!” he said, looking up at the great black body with its sleek lines and new tires.

"Sorry," the weight said. "Say, you don’t sound like you’re from around here - "

"English," he said, crisply. 

"Sorry," the weight repeated. "I bet you get that a lot. Especially now, with all the imports from Asia."

Reluctantly, the Falcon said, “There is nothing wrong with the imports. I’ve recently had some parts installed from abroad.”

"Sorry again," the weight laughed. "No, there’s nothing wrong with parts from abroad. I’m half-Vietnamese, myself."

"Ah," he said, and if this were Winnie the Pooh, the great black bike would have replied likewise. And that would have been that and they were would have settled into a mutual and silent agreement to ignore each other, despite the Cannondale lying half on top of him. But he had forgotten, this was America and the bike was American, regardless of the Asian origins of half its parts.

"You been in Boston long?"

"Brought over thirty years ago." He hoped he didn’t sound as old as his import date implied. (Not that the close proximity of the black bike had anything to do with this feeling. Not at all.)

"Wow. I’m just a couple of years old." 

"You - " the Falcon couldn’t quite help it (he was manufactured in a place where politeness was prized), "certainly have a nice modern look to you. Carbon-fibre?"

"Yeah - but every bike is composite these days. You’ve got that classic thing going, you know? The color, lines, steel frame, careful wear - somebody’s been taking good care of you." Was that a faint blush on the Cannondale?

He could feel himself unbending. Americans. They do it to you every time. ”Thank you.”

The skies had been slowly darkening and rain started spattering everywhere.

"Oh shit," the Cannondale said.

"Typical day in Boston." The Falcon was glad they were back on solid ground. He could talk about the weather endlessly.

"At least I can help you out."

"How?"

"I’m taking it for you," the Cannondale replied. "The least I can do, what with you providing me a nice place to lay."

It was true, when the Falcon looked up, the Cannondale was dripping wet, most of the rain running off his sides. Again, he couldn’t quite help but notice that the rain wasn’t affecting the other bike’s appearance at all. If anything, the other bike only looked a bit…shinier. The Falcon paused and then said, “Ta.”

"Maybe next time, you can return the favor."

The Falcon smiled. ”Certainly. I’ll gladly get wet if you provide a nice place to lay.”

The Cannondale flushed and stared out at the canal. After a moment, he said, “Some rain, huh?”

"Some rain," the Falcon replied, staring at the Cannondale, making no effort to look away.

The Cannondale turned back, saw the Falcon’s expression, smiled back and said, “Ah.”

"Ah." 

And they settled into a mutual and silent agreement to continue to look at each other and be pleased for the rest of the afternoon.


	2. Grey Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Falcon Explorer is sitting in the rain, thinking about warmer days. Bike gijinka. Slice-of-life. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [ this ](http://shortlifelongart.tumblr.com/post/84466558272/fanart-for-torils-bike-dont-look-at-me). This art made me so sad. I wanted to make him happy again.

Some days, the rider took him out in the rain.

It wasn’t riding in the rain that affected him. He loved going outside, was made for it, and any day on the road was a good day. He could feel the streets hum through his gears, his tires shhh-ing shhh-ing through the slick, cushioning the rider on top. He wasn’t afraid, even though he had his concerns. Beyond the danger to the rider of the slippery roads and poor visibility, there was also the very real concern for his own longevity. Reduced braking ability and the threat of rust on an old steel bike frame was a bitch.

He was locked into place on the street and the rider hastened to find cover.

The problem was the sitting outside. He didn’t like it, didn’t feel it was very good for him. His physical condition would be fine. The rider wasn’t careless, and he’d get taken care of when he got home. Honestly, it was as good as it could be, outside, but the rain made him sad. Waiting in the rain, waiting, while the heavens emptied all over the black and grey streets, people and vehicles hurried by, busy with themselves.

He supposed it had been a while since he had spoken to anybody. His knee had been badly damaged, and even though the realignment was virtually invisible, he knew where it was. He supposed he was feeling his age.

The summer had been a good one; he had made the acquaintance of a gorgeous young Cannondale, quite by accident. Every day, they were placed into the rack near each other, and slowly, there had been a growing feeling between the two of them. They never spoke of it while they discussed the weather, the construction projects they had passed, their riders, the places they had been and someday hoped to go. Maybe. Rider willing.

Companionship, if he had had to put a finger on it. That’s what it was.

Yes. A good spring and summer, one of the best of his many. A halcyon time. But like all things, the brief balmy weather had ended and New England had returned to its more accustomed grey. One day the Cannondale did not come, and then his rider changed jobs.

There had been more than words. There had been looks, too; quick ones checking on the impact of one’s wit, shy ones when revealing some small cherished fantasy, eye-rolling during some fantastical story, stern ones during controversies that almost always were resolved. Straight gazes at each other when words failed.

Those he missed most of all. He held the memory of it like paper-thin golden glass that might shatter with a single harsh breath.

He guessed he should be glad to have known the Cannondale at all, for any length of time. Such sweetness was not granted to many, and for one such as him, well. A spring and summer out of his length of days was not bad. He would have liked more, though.

Perhaps the rain was appropriate for his musings today.

His hair dripped. The paint on his arm and elbow had been scraped up recently, and the rain made it sting. His knee ached. How long now until the rider returned?

He heard a funny kind of hollow thump and sudden noticed how incredibly, disgustingly, soppingly, soakingly he actually was. Had it stopped raining? He looked up, and found, his heart suddenly racing, the Cannondale peering down at him with concerned amusement. Its rider had rigged an umbrella to the Cannondale’s frame in an attempt to keep it dry, which had the benefit of stretching over him, blocking the rain which had allowed for him to realized the misery of wet he lay in.

"I say," he began.

"No," the Cannondale said. "Let’s not." And smiled at him, eyes shining.

"Of course." And he looked back, suddenly feeling as warm and temperate as golden summer.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been to Cambridge a couple of times, and it seemed a nice setting. I don’t know anything about bikes or biking other than what I “learned” from anime and dubious internet sources (including starlock’s tumblr tags).


End file.
